Help Yourself
by In the House
Summary: An AU season finale that takes off after Baggage and replaces the events of 6-22. Will ultimately be Huddy.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is not a postep for Help Me. It will not utilize the now-famous 2-minute "finale gimmick" Huddy scene wedged at the end of that episode, nor the absolutely howling, unbelievable error of the entire situation of that episode, having an administrator and a disabled diagnostician working triage at a disaster scene while able-bodied and currently in practice docs remain back at PPTH or are even sent away from the scene. However, it's an interesting little story. The core idea I've actually been tossing around for about a month. My muse tweaked it and modified it after Baggage, starting to tentatively toss it like House's thinking ball, although I couldn't say it was building into a story yet. The idea really took off after Help Me, I think in response to my objection to that whole disaster-scene concept. For time-line purposes, this story begins after Baggage, before Help Me, and we then enter AU. It's more than a one-parter, but nothing like as long as Onslaught. It will ultimately be Huddy, as despite my reaction to Help Me, with the disaster scenario being the last straw of the season, I do like Huddy and would like them to get together (just realistically, please, PTB, with infarcted legs and without superhero crane scene heroics?). This story has nothing at all to do with the Pranks series. Anyhow, here's the first short test chapter of Help Yourself.

Disclaimer: After the above and other comments of mine on season 6, it's clearly redundant to say I don't own House. Nevertheless, I'll say it for form's sake. They aren't mine.

(H/C)

House rolled over with a groan as the sunlight through the window assaulted his eyes. He made a quick look around, verifying that he was actually in the bed he was supposed to be in. It was almost too quick a look around, and his stomach churned in protest. He let his head fall back into the pillow, eyes closing. Maybe if he ignored everything, the world and the hangover both would just go away. No Sam. No Lucas. No Nolan preaching about his real problems. Screw this, he thought again, tossing the thought toward the psychiatrist. I tried. It failed anyway. Happiness was only the reality for other people. The best he could do was escape, which unlike happiness could be purchased at the store. If he ran out, he could go back to buy more. If he broke it, he could replace it with another just as good. Part of him deep inside still suggested that liquor might not be the answer, but it was at least getting him through the last few hellacious weeks, which was more than sessions with Nolan could say.

The phone rang, and he cringed as it reverberated in his head. Fumbling toward the nightstand without opening his eyes, he found the offending instrument, resisted temptation to throw it across the room, and answered. "What?" he snapped, eyes still tightly closed.

He hadn't opened his eyes to look at caller ID, figuring that the light assault would be worse than 2 seconds of notice as to whether he was about to be judged and criticized by Cuddy or Wilson.

"House! Where are you?"

Ah, Cuddy. Should have known. Wilson was probably still wrapped up in morning exercise routine with Sam.

"Princeton, New Jersey," he replied, moving the phone a bit away in consideration for his head. He could still hear her perfectly well.

"I mean, why aren't you here?"

"Oh, should have said so, then. I can't help it if you ask the wrong questions." He cracked an eye again to look at his watch. Shit. 10:30.

"House, get in here. You have a case. An 12-year-old had a stroke."

Both eyes came open at that, the curiosity which was about the only emotion he let himself feel these days pushing his hangover aside. "A 12-year-old?"

"Yes. And tox screen was clean. Now get in here and do your job." She put the receiver down too hard for his aching head, and he flinched.

Okay, first step, he had to sit up. He slowly moved the leg over. It wasn't at all happy, but at least it wasn't in one of its wild animal chewing it fits this morning. Could be worse. Its relative tameness for once left him that much more able to focus on his churning stomach and his throbbing head. How much had he had to drink last night? He was still clothed and had been lying on top of the covers, and he took a quick sniff of his T-shirt. Stale cigarette smoke and whiskey, the smell of any bar. He vaguely remembered staggering out of the apartment to finish filling up with alcohol after he ran out here. He wished Nolan had given him some advance notice of what a jerk the psychiatrist was going to be at that session; if he'd known, House would have stopped to buy more alcoholic supplies while driving to Middletown. Afterward, he'd been too annoyed on the way back. Fake healer, indeed. Sitting there no doubt getting a vicarious thrill from listening to other people's screw-ups and pointing out how far they still had to go to the unattainable goal. Why couldn't Nolan realize that some people just weren't meant to be happy?

With a groan, House stood up. The room wavered briefly but didn't start spinning. Good, he was well past drunk and into hangover. Not that hangover felt better, but at least it was easier to work through. House patted his pocket, verifying that his wallet and his keys were both there. He must have taken a cab both ways last night. With a sigh, he limped heavily toward the bathroom to try to wash away the rest of the alcohol. He barely made it into the bathroom before dropping to his knees - OUCH - in front of the toilet instead.

All this after a year's worth of genuine effort in therapy, too. Straightening up after a few minutes, House rinsed out his mouth and limped over to the shower. Yes, this day was off to a rip-roaring start. Hopefully the case would at least be an interesting one.

(H/C)

The case actually was an interesting one, absorbing House's attention enough that he could almost forget about how much life in general sucked right now. He spent the day chasing down directions with the team, finally solving it himself late that afternoon, and he was almost feeling in a good mood as he packed up his things to leave for the day. He looked up curiously as Cuddy entered the office briskly, holding a sheet of paper in her hands. "Nope, I've already saved one life today. Whoever you have will have to wait until tomorrow."

Cuddy looked at him silently, that reproachful, how much House lets everybody down look that he hated. "What?" he asked.

"I'm sure you know already." She walked a few steps closer to the desk.

"Know what? Lucas is out of the picture?" He tossed it out as a hopeful joke, a rewind mentally to the espresso machine, but she reacted as if he'd hit her verbally, anger replacing disappointment in her eyes.

"You son-of-a-bitch, leave my personal life out of your failures. You have enough yourself to be dealing with right now."

"Once again, what exactly is the topic of discussion here?"

"The hospital did one of the random drug tests after you finally got here this morning."

"I know. I was there. I seem to remember that I even participated." He'd been wrapped up in the case by then and hadn't even produced his usual resigned quip at having to fill the cup. He was used to the tests by now, a condition of his return to practice.

Cuddy stared at him, part of her forced to admire how genuinely confused he looked. Damn, he was good. She slapped the lab report down on his desk. "Your test came back positive for Vicodin."


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, I guess you like the idea. I wasn't sure if people would be interested in reading an alternative finale, since so many postep extensions are around and I'm ignoring the scene all of those people obviously loved. Anyhow, here's chapter 2. Again, this story isn't terribly long, but it's a nice little roller coaster of its own.

(H/C)

House was stunned. No, not just stunned, horrified. He stared at the page of lab results on the desk. "But I didn't . . ." he protested, but his voice was soft, weak.

Cuddy, who had been prepared and all rehearsed up to confront defiance, denial, or evasion, was instead swept straight back to the scene in her office a year ago. For the first time since she had received the results, concern overpowered annoyance and disappointment. "House?" She had to repeat his name before he looked up. "You really don't think you took any?"

He shook his head and looked back down at the page. "I don't . . . remember it." Suddenly, almost frantically, he whipped out his bottle of ibuprofen, opening it, spilling them out across the desk. Cuddy came up beside him, and they both picked up a few sample pills, scrutinizing them.

"This is ibuprofen," Cuddy confirmed. She looked at him, wanting to believe and yet afraid to. She knew, as he did, that a year ago, in his hallucination, he had thought he was off Vicodin, too, and he had been scarfing them down like breath mints the whole day while he saw something else. Believing his denial meant wondering if his brilliant mind once again had fractured. She had barely survived it once, and she knew how devastated he had been that day. She wasn't sure she could take round two, and she was almost positive he couldn't.

Unless . . . "Maybe there's another explanation. Maybe it's a lab error. Why don't we run a blood test?"

He nodded. He still looked stunned. "I'll go down and get a blood draw kit," she stated, realizing he wouldn't want anybody else doing this. She already knew he was afraid he might be breaking down again. No one else needed to be brought into the loop yet. He was clinging to the torn shreds of privacy.

"First," he asked, his voice still soft and totally unlike his usual, "could you . . . search me? Last year, I thought . . ." He trailed off, but his mind completed it. He had thought he had her lipstick, when he actually had his Vicodin all along. Had anybody been asked last year during that day, they would have confirmed the Vicodin, but nobody had realized his delusion.

Cuddy took a deep breath. "Okay," she said, trying to keep her voice even for his sake when her own fears were screaming at her. She had fully expected a simple relapse when she'd gotten the test. It had never occurred to her to seek another answer, whether mental break or lab error. And why hadn't it, she challenged herself, feeling a stab of guilt. They'd had their differences this year, but was she so out of the loop that even concern for him as an employee was automatically overriden by pure assumption of failure?

He was waiting, and she stepped forward, awkwardly patting him down almost as if he were a suspect under arrest. He had his wallet, his keys, his ibuprofen. Nothing remotely resembling Vicodin in his pockets. She moved on to his backpack, opening it while he watched numbly. Professional magazines. One magazine of another sort entirely. His Gameboy.

Satisfied, she shook her head. "I don't see anything at all that looks like Vicodin."

He was relieved, but he still wanted more proof. "Check the desk drawers." She did so, finding his liquor bottle, giving him a sharp glance, but again, no Vicodin came to light. She took a final walk around the office, pulling out a book here and there, looking behind and in his artifacts. Absolutely nothing. She took a deep breath and faced him.

"Maybe it's a lab error, House. Let's try that before we jump to conclusions. And maybe even if it confirms there's another reason besides delusions." She looked at the bottle on his desk. "How much have you been drinking lately?" She remembered his confession of winding up in the wrong bed.

His eyes fell. "More than I should," he admitted. "I was drunk last night."

"Do you think you could take Vicodin while drunk and not know it?"

He sighed. "Maybe. But I'd have to find some. The whole apartment's been cleaned out. Not sure how much effort I could put into finding it if I was too drunk to remember taking it." There was, of course, his super secret stash behind the mirror, his last resort, but he knew that was untouched. Impossible to get to without destroying a piece of the wall, even sober. Probably completely impossible all around if he was drunk.

Cuddy came back to face him. "It could be lab error. Let's rule that out."

He shook himself, as if trying to dislodge his fears. "Okay. I swear, I didn't deliberately . . . with everything, I've STILL managed to avoid that."

This wasn't the time to explore his statement of everything and defend herself. He seemed to need reassurance right now, which House never did, or almost never, until that day in her office last year. "Come on," she said. "Let's go down to the lab and get some blood. I'll have the tests rerun. Do you want to do them? I could watch to verify it."

He shook his head. "Get a tech. Somebody who doesn't know me. Put it under a pseudonym; some of my stuff is under Luke N Laura. No indication that this test is special, just in case somebody with a grudge against me interfered with it. If this one is positive, we can run one personally, but maybe if they don't know it's me, it will be different."

She had to concede that third possibility. House certainly had made enough enemies, including ones in the hospital with the knowledge required. "All right. I'll get it run by someone who's never dealt with you, although it might have to wait until first thing in the morning. There's just a skeleton evening crew down there, and I think all of them know you fairly well."

He looked at his watch, surprised how late it was. "All right. Don't get a draw kit from the lab; they'd question that. You don't actively practice medicine anymore. Get one from a hall cart somewhere and then come back up. Then have somebody too dumb to be curious, some job robot, take the vial to the lab and order tests for first thing in the morning. Nothing anyone in the lab would see to connect it with either of us."

She nodded, admiring his mental dexterity, even under stress. "I'll go get a kit. Are you okay? I'm not sure I should leave you alone at the moment."

"Too late," he murmured, almost inaudibly.

"What?" She thought she'd heard but didn't want to.

"Nothing. I'm fine." He picked up the Gameboy. "I'll be up here without Vicodin waiting for you."

She studied him, then accepted it. "Back in a few minutes." She returned as quickly as she could, finding him playing Gameboy, as he'd said. She drew the blood, a bit awkwardly as she was out of practice, but he didn't comment on the initial failed efforts. Finally, she left him again to deliver the blood to the least curious aide she could think of, then came back.

House was looking steadier, she thought. The search of the office had helped him, and it was after that that he'd thought up the quite-good third party theory. Of course, he still could have taken it somehow while drunk. Or he could have just relapsed and be playing her like his baby grand piano, but she didn't think so. Even House wasn't that good an actor. He hadn't been faking the horror at first.

"All done?" he asked, looking away from the screen and ignoring the electronic protest as his car on the game died.

"Mission accomplished," she said with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. It suddenly occurred to her that this was the most extended, sincere interaction the two of them had had since he had gotten into the car with her on the day of the insurance battle. She did miss his friendship, the old camaraderie, but he had chosen a few weeks ago, after all. He couldn't accept friendship from her any longer. Maybe she should hand this whole situation over to someone whom he would accept. "House, do you want me to call Wilson?"

That drew the most Housian response since she'd confronted him with the test. "Hell, no. Wouldn't want to interfere with his evening with Sam. He'd probably pay somebody else to come, anyway."

She flinched but didn't pursue it. "Are you sure you'll be okay tonight?" She no longer thought herself that he was having an acute break, not like last year. He'd never settled down during the middle of that as he had after she'd searched him. He looked almost like himself now, mind galloping along as usual, but no longer in shock.

He nodded. "Go on home. Tell Lucas hi."

She studied him carefully. "You can come home with me if you want."

Now that would be the height of awkwardness, being the third wheel in the new home with Lucas and Cuddy, not to mention Rachel, still present though probably asleep. "No. Lucas knows too much . . ." He trailed off again, and she flinched. Yes, Lucas already knew more than he should about House's delusions. She still felt guilty about that. Of course House wouldn't want to face him, to face the questions and be unable to deny that something might be going on. "Go on. I'll go home and keep myself company with my piano." No way would he accept her, and certainly not Lucas, as babysitter. She had made her choice, just as he had.

She studied him, gauging his sincerity and his stability, and then nodded reluctantly. "All right, but please don't get drunk tonight."

"I won't," he promised, perfectly sincerely. If alcohol had led him to drunk Vicodin-gulping, it was time to completely blow up the trestle and derail that train. "Although it's probably somebody here out to sabotage me."

"Or just a lab error," she pointed out. She studied him, still a bit reluctant to leave, and at that moment, her phone rang. "Oh, hi. Sorry, I got tied up at the hospital. Yes, I'm about to leave now. How's Rachel? Okay, see you soon. I love you, too." She snapped the cell phone off, and when she looked back at House, every wall he had was up. No more did this remind her of an encounter, albeit a stressed one, between friends. "Are you sure . . ."

"Go on home," he said coldly. "I'm fine."

She knew she wouldn't get anything more besides a stone wall tonight. "Call me if you need me," she offered. She knew he wouldn't. With one more slightly worried glance, she left her hospital's best asset in his office and headed home, worried more about this situation than just professionally.

Left behind in the office, House stared at the ibuprofen, then at the liquor bottle, and then he got up and walked into the conference room to pour the booze down the sink. Enough. He had told Cuddy the truth; he wouldn't drink any alcohol tonight. The fear of going back on the Vicodin, going back to the hallucinations and delusions, was too strong. His last random drug test two weeks ago had been clean, and the tests were run regularly; if he'd had a drunk relapse, it was fairly recent and not large enough that he'd noticed a functional difference, even with his tolerance for Vicodin presumably no longer up. If he'd had any somehow, he didn't think he'd had much. Hopefully he was okay.

But he still favored the lab error theory or, even better, sabotage. He could fight a person and defeat a person better than a computer. He knew he had enemies. Let them try; he wasn't going back to Mayfield or to Nolan with his tail between his legs without putting up one hell of a fight.

With a determined limp, he picked up his backpack and exited the office, heading home to his Yamaha, the one friend of his life who steadfastly refused to judge him or move on to better choices.


	3. Chapter 3

The team was startled the next morning to find House already there when they arrived. Not only was he not hungover this morning, not only was he not late, but he was actually early. He was sitting at the conference table, staring at the totally blank whiteboard as if conducting a differential on air. None of them saw the mental writing he'd been afraid to put down in plain view, but the words to him were as clear as if they had been written in indelible ink.

Alcohol.

Error.

Sabotage.

His career at the hospital, not to mention his own slipping grip on control of his life, hung suspended from those three words.

Alcohol lowered inhibitions, but it did not give you desires you didn't have anyway, couldn't make you do something you were absolutely against doing. If he had gone back to Vicodin while drunk, he knew that it meant his own mind didn't really believe in his efforts at rehab, no more than Cuddy or Wilson did. It meant the last year truly was a waste. And part of him was still afraid he was hallucinating, although Cuddy's search had helped knock that fear to a back burner, at least. But it hadn't been eliminated.

Error. The easiest solution, the quick-fix, and therefore the one he least believed. Nothing in his life had ever been easy or had been fixed quickly. No, that couldn't be it. No get-out-of-positive-free card would appear to resolve this.

Sabotage. A very good possibility. He knew he had enemies. Someone could have interfered with the results in the lab. The answer he hoped most for, and thus the one he was afraid to put too much stock in.

Which led in a circle back to #1, that he himself had blown it, just as he had blown almost every other nonprofessional thing in his life.

"House?" Taub said tentatively when it became obvious that their boss was totally unaware of the team's entrance. House jumped and turned quickly in the chair, gritting his teeth as his leg protested the sudden movement.

"Are you okay?" Chase asked tentatively.

No, but nothing you all can do would help. "Fine."

"You're . . .early," Foreman noted, in a tone that equated that to hell freezing over.

"Going to report me? You're the official spy for Cuddy, you know. Coming in early. That's a serious offense. Better stop that in its tracks." Sarcasm dripped off House's tone, pushing them back, trying to regain distance to get his mental balance. It worked. Foreman rolled his eyes and gave a "last time I act concerned" look before sitting down himself with a professional journal.

"Got a case?" Chase asked.

"Not yet. Why don't you all go fishing? I hear ER is biting well sometimes. Or you could always do my clinic hours."

All but Foreman drifted out, and House moved to his office, taking his mental whiteboard with him.

Alcohol.

Error.

Sabotage.

(H/C)

He knew from Cuddy's expression, even before she spoke, when she entered his office in mid morning. "It's positive," he stated, saving her the trouble.

She sighed, looking concerned. "Yes. I'm sorry." She put the lab report down on the desk, and he studied it.

"Pretty much rules out error, then, or makes it unlikely. It would have to be two errors in a row." He was trying to keep working this out clinically, trying to avoid the inescapable conclusion that he had fallen off the wagon without even knowing it, tricked by his own subconscious. "That leaves alcohol or sabotage."

"We need to repeat the test," she said. "And this time, I'll watch it personally, and you can, too. No chance for anybody in the lab to throw the results."

"Then everybody would know . . ." He trailed off. Having the dean in the lab personally supervising tests with House there led to only one inescapable conclusion. The grapevine would have him relapsed and suspended again before the results even printed out. Cuddy never ran tests herself, never stood over a test in the lab.

She fought down sympathy. If he had screwed up again, if he did lose his license and had to stop practicing, of course the hospital would eventually know. Yet she still, perhaps foolishly, believed his denial. Whatever had happened, he had not intentionally taken the pills. "Maybe somebody who would draw less comment in the lab, then. I'm sorry, House, but I do want it directly supervised this time by somebody besides you alone. But getting someone else means letting someone else know what's going on. Your team is down in the lab all the time, but do you want to tell one of them?"

He shook his head vigorously, feeling a quick pang as he remembered the one team member he would have trusted with that assignment. Kutner. He flinched, remembering Kutner standing next to him in Cuddy's office that day. "Too bad none of it was real," the fellow had stated, looking genuinely sympathetic. Had anything in the last year, any of his efforts, been real?

"House?" Cuddy asked.

"Nothing." He sighed, considering the only two real options. He could either be judged and condemned in advance by Wilson, or he could be judged and condemned in advance by the entire lab staff and by grapevine extension the hospital if he repeated the test with Cuddy. "Call Wilson," he said, his tone defeated.

Cuddy felt a momentary urge to touch him on the shoulder, to let him know she was there, but she fought it down. She hadn't been there lately, obviously, had ignored the significance of his increasing drinking, and equally obviously, by his own statements recently, he didn't want her there. He didn't want her as a friend. "Maybe it will end there, House. Maybe the results were sabotaged in the lab."

"Maybe," he agreed.

Neither one of them believed it by this point.

(H/C)

"I don't believe this," Wilson stated for about the tenth time. He was keeping his voice down in the lab as he ran tests, both blood and urine for double results, and nobody was in their corner of the room of equipment anyway, but he was incapable of doing this in silence.

"Heard you the first several times," House replied. He paced a quick circle and rubbed at his leg. It was back to its usual baseline gnawing, burning pain today. Probably it had been a bit more bearable yesterday morning when he woke up because he'd been drunk-pilling.

"I mean, I know you've been drinking some lately, but seriously, House. How could things get this bad? Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you let me know?"

House whipped around to face him, his eyes ice cold. "Yes, _how _could you possibly have known things were going downhill? It's not like you got woken up by the police - if you were woken up instead of doing morning calisthenics with that harpy."

Wilson was bristling. "Leave Sam out of this. She isn't responsible for your screw-ups."

"You _paid _people, Wilson." House was getting more annoyed now, almost relieved at finding a target for anger besides himself. "You're the one who agreed to Nolan to be there for me. Instead, you were paying people to spend time with me instead. Face it, you didn't see a problem because you didn't want to see one. If you didn't want to put up with me anymore, you could have told me directly instead of just trying to shove me off like an unwanted gift you're regifting."

Wilson felt his own anger firing up. "Everything is someone else's fault with you, isn't it, House? My fault, Nolan's fault, the lab's fault. It's never you."

Their eyes locked, and right then, the printer whirred and regurgitated a piece of paper. Wilson picked it up and held it out so they both could read it. Double positive, blood and urine. No chance this time of error or of interference with the results. House stared at the page, looking so stricken that Wilson felt concern displacing annoyance. "Look, House," he said softly, "maybe I have been taking things with Sam too quickly. Like I said before, you can move back in if you need to."

House turned around, shoulders sagging. "Don't be a hypocrite, Wilson. We both know you don't want me there. Maybe the return period hasn't run out on the organ, so you can take it back and totally erase me from your place." He limped toward the door.

"House! Where are you going?" Unconsciously, the oncologist's hands had gone to his hips.

House turned around to face him again. "What do you care? If you really want to know, I'm sure you can pay somebody else to find out so you won't have to be bothered to follow me yourself." He turned and pushed his way out through the doors, limping heavily.

Wilson shook his head. Looking back down at the lab results, he reluctantly pulled out his cell phone to call Cuddy.


	4. Chapter 4

Cuddy felt her concern - and her disappointment - rising at what she was hearing on the phone. "You mean he walked out of therapy? Just quit?"

"I'm afraid so," Nolan said. "I was hoping that you wouldn't be calling me in the near future, but I was very much afraid you would." Cuddy and Nolan, of course, were authorized to communicate regarding the contracted conditions under which House had returned to employment at PPTH. "Technically, he is not mandated to continue therapy at this point a year after his admission, but he was more on edge in that session than I've seen him since last spring. I was afraid then he was on the verge of a relapse, and I wanted to chase after him when he left that night, but I couldn't. As of yet, he hadn't done anything."

Cuddy sighed. "Until that very same night. He admitted to getting extremely drunk the night after that appointment, although he hadn't told me he had a bad session with you beforehand. Obviously, he found some Vicodin while drunk and took it, and thus the positive tests yesterday and this morning. He insists he doesn't remember it, and I believe him, but I don't see how it matters from the hospital's point of view. The fact that he is using again is enough, whether he took it drunk or sober. He'll have to go back into rehab."

Nolan shook his head, fighting down his own frustration over the patients who wouldn't let him help. House had, from day one, been one of the most challenging of his career. "I'm willing to continue working with him, but I'm not sure he'll let me. If he wants a transfer of physician, that could be arranged. But yes, I think returning to rehab at least temporarily is going to be required. I won't report him to the medical board at first, if he turns around quickly and cooperates during a short admission; this was clearly one relapse that evening under stress. It's not too late to intervene, and not too much damage done yet to his recovery, but I'm afraid we'll probably have to hold his license over his head again to get any kind of cooperation at all."

"I'll talk to him and see if we can get him to agree to short-term readmission." Cuddy's tone left no doubt how little chance of success she expected. "He obviously left quite a bit out of what he admitted to me, too. I believe him when he says he doesn't know, but he still downplayed how much things have been stressing him lately and his own mental state, and he never mentioned the appointment with you at all." She smacked her hand on the desk, the desk he had given her. "Damn it, House, why won't you let us help you?"

Nolan's voice was sympathetic. "We can't help people until they hit bottom for themselves, Dr. Cuddy."

"I thought he already had hit bottom. If last year wasn't the bottom, what is? He seemed to really be trying this year." She shuddered, remembering again the scene in her office. Would he need something worse than that to make a lasting impression? "Well, thank you for your time, Dr. Nolan. I'll call you back and let you know what he says."

After she hung up, she rested her face in her hands. Drunk or sober, House clearly had just cracked under stress and relapsed night before last. Maybe she should have seen the signs more, and Wilson definitely should have, but as Dr. Nolan had said, the ultimate responsibility was on House. They couldn't save him if he wouldn't reach out to them.

"Tough morning?" Lucas' low-key, pleasant voice cut through her thoughts, and she raised her head, glad for the moment of some distraction.

"Hi. Tough morning doesn't start to cover it."

"What's up?" He walked around her desk and started massaging her shoulders, and she leaned back into his touch and closed her eyes.

"Just hospital business." Lucas had noticed how tense she was last night when she finally got home, of course, but for once, still feeling guilty at House's reminder of her past indiscretions, she had simply said there was a problem at the hospital that she hoped would be straightened out this morning, and that she didn't want to talk about it. He had accepted it with his usual amiable blandness. He was so pleasant. He was so easy to live with. He was so boring. She opened her eyes in denial on the last thought.

"What about getting away for lunch? Might take your mind off it," he suggested.

She looked at her watch, surprised. "Is it lunch time? I hadn't realized. Sorry, Lucas, but I still have some fires to put out. I can't leave right now."

He accepted it. "Well, I'd hoped for a nice lunch - actually I'd hoped for a nice dinner last night - for this, but I understand how much your job means to you. That dedication is part of what I love about you."

She smiled, but her mind was still processing his statement. "A nice lunch for what? Is it a special occasion?"

"I hope so." He came around to the side of the chair, pulled out an unmistakable velvet box, and dropped to his knee beside her. "Lisa Cuddy, I love you, and I love Rachel, and I want to spend the rest of my life making you happy. Will you marry me?"

Cuddy stared at the diamond, speechless for a moment. Would she _marry _him? Granted, they were moving in together, but marriage was such a permanent, official statement to the world.

On the other hand, he did love her, and he was good with Rachel. Reliability. That was what she needed for her daughter. In stark contrast against House, stalking out of therapy and getting so drunk he didn't even remember taking Vicodin, Lucas looked pretty good at the moment. Wasn't this what she'd wanted? A home, a family, stability?

"Lisa?" He looked up at her with his almost childlike face. "You can have some time to think about it if you need, but if you're going to break my heart, please do it gently."

To hell with it. This was what she'd always said she needed. "I was just admiring the ring. Yes, Lucas, I will marry you."

He bounced up off his knee like a jack-in-the-box, wrapping her in an embrace. "You've made me the happiest man alive," he said when their lips parted. He slipped the ring onto her finger and admired it, and she did likewise. It was a very nice ring. Yes, she told herself firmly, she was happy.

"Sure you can't sneak out for lunch?" he suggested.

House's problems returned to the forefront of her mind with a rush. "I'm sorry, Lucas, but there is a crisis at the hospital at the moment. But I'll see you tonight, and I promise not to stay late." She kissed him again. "Thank you."

"Love you," he said, turning back at the office door.

"I love you, too," she replied. He exited, and she looked at the ring. You want this, she told herself. You've always wanted this. If there was any sense of letdown, it was because House was, typically, intruding his own issues into what should have been her moment. With a sigh, she picked up the phone, called his cell, and asked him to come to her office.

He didn't ask why, obviously already knowing. When he entered her office, he looked absolutely awful, like a balloon with the air whooshing out. Stunned, forlorn eyes, drooping shoulders. She wanted to hug him, assure him it could still be all right, but she forced herself not to. He didn't want her friendship, after all. "Sit down, House," she requested.

He limped slowly across the room, nearly collapsed into the chair in front of her desk, and froze, his eyes locking on her left hand, on the ring. Oddly, she had forgotten about the ring, hadn't thought of it once since calling him, and she followed his gaze almost in surprise at seeing it there, as if it were on someone else's finger.

"How long?" he asked. Surely he hadn't missed seeing that earlier.

"About 15 minutes. It just happened."

He wrenched his eyes away, staring at his own empty hands. "Congratulations," he said softly.

"Thank you." She sighed. "House, I want you to know that I absolutely do believe you when you say you didn't intentionally relapse."

"But it doesn't make any difference," he completed.

"I'm sorry. I really am. But no, from the hospital's standpoint, it doesn't make any difference."

"I'll pack my things up," he said. He sounded so defeated.

"Wait a minute! Who said anything about packing your things up?"

He looked up, puzzled. "I'm not fired?"

"No. Not right now, anyway. We can deal with this, House. We can work through it. We can get help."

He shook his head. "_We _can't deal with this. There is no us. You said that."

"Damn it, House, I'm talking about the job now. You are a valued asset of this hospital, and . . ."

"Yes, by all means, you don't want to do anything that affects the bottom line." His tone was getting louder and sharper.

Cuddy leaned back in her chair. "I'm not going to have an argument with you. That wasn't what I called you down here for. You should know that I called Nolan." He had been studying his hands again, but his head jerked up suddenly there. "He had some interesting things to say, some things that you neglected to mention to me yourself. House, you can either go back to Mayfield for a short-term rehab admission - with it listed as a sole relapse, and no report made at this point to the licensing board. Or, if you don't agree to that, I'm afraid Nolan will have to recommend to the board that your license be suspended again."

He stared at her, looking devastated and angry at the same time. "I can't go back there."

"Sorry, but you should have thought of that sooner, before you took the pills."

"But I didn't realize . . ." He trailed off.

"House, you can't tell me that your mind totally stopped working, no matter how drunk you were. You need help, House. Please, let us help you."

He pushed the chair back, lurching to his feet. "You don't really want to; you just want to salve your conscience by saying you tried. I'm not going back to Mayfield."

She sighed, trying not to rise to his bait. "Then there's nothing here for you. I'm sorry, House."

He slumped as if the air had been let out again. "Right. There's nothing here for me. Have a good marriage, and tell Wilson the same, not that wishing it will make a difference in his case. And Chase needs to be head of diagnostics; he's better than Foreman." He turned toward the door.

"House!" Her voice stopped him, much as he tried to ignore it. He would never be able to ignore her. "I realize this is a shock; please don't make any snap decisions. I'll give you 48 hours to think about things before I say a word to the board."

He stared at her, his eyes going from the ring to her face and then back to the ring, then again to her face, as if memorizing it. "Goodbye, Cuddy," he said finally.

And then he was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

With a jerk that sent pain flaring down his bad leg, House wrenched the mirror off the wall and tossed it aside into the tub, not caring that it shattered on landing. Good. It could match the rest of his life in jagged shards. The Vicodin bottles were there, his last remaining super secret hideout, never touched this whole year.

A whole year. For a whole year, he had fought to stay clean. He had battled his leg every morning, had suffered through each rainstorm, had gritted his teeth as the remaining overworked muscles in his leg protested at each step. He had tried massage. He had tried regular hot soaks, one of the best methods until Wilson's unreasonable declaration that the bathtub was off limits had interfered with that. The ibuprofen was a joke; all a year of it had given him was a growing uneasiness in his stomach and the fear, as yet unverified, that he was starting to develop erosive gastritis. But he'd stayed clean in all of that, had cursed and cajoled his leg in turn, had mentally dissected everyone who said that the pain was simply because of Vicodin. No, the pain was because of an infarction. But the hallucinations from the Vicodin had indeed scared him into trying to deal with the pain in non opiate ways. He'd tried so hard, for a full year.

Until his mind apparently joined the rest of the world in doubting his ability to keep clean and had gone in drunken pursuit of Vicodin.

He hadn't even been able to appreciate the blessed initial surge of pain relief, to feel the narcotic soothing the severed nerve ends and spreading out through the remaining muscle. Nope, he'd been too drunk to even enjoy the effect. Not that it had ever taken it away, but the difference was substantial.

Well, he was about to remedy that. If everybody including himself thought his relapse had been inevitable, he would at least benefit from some pain relief for once. Since his life was hopelessly screwed up anyway, nothing left to lose; he might as well have his leg feel better.

He slid down the bathroom wall, sitting on the floor, staring at the bottle, tossing it briefly like his thinking ball.

_How _had he managed to find Vicodin while totally wasted? These two bottles were all that remained in the apartment, and they were untouched before now.

How didn't matter. He had found it somewhere. Four drug tests, the last two of which had been completely performed in his presence, could not possibly be mistaken.

He opened a bottle, spilling out two of the chalky white pills into his palm. He stared at them - and he hesitated. He could hear his breathing accelerating, could feel his mouth starting to water just looking at them. Yet he hesitated.

Go ahead, he told himself. You've already made your decision anyway. This time, you're just sober enough to appreciate it.

He remembered Amber, her mocking voice, her persistent barbs, her annoying insistence that they were a team. He remembered Kutner standing in Cuddy's office looking at him. "Too bad none of it was real." He remembered days of utter hell at Mayfield, strapped to the bed, so consumed with agony that he would have killed himself somehow if his arms had been loose, just to stop the pain.

He remembered Cuddy, approaching him last year with such caring in her eyes, asking, "Are you okay?"

A sob broke through his lips. "No," he said out loud, echoing that encounter. "I'm not okay. Please, not again."

He'd already taken Vicodin somehow. He couldn't undo that. But he could choose not to take this Vicodin.

With an abrupt, near convulsive movement, he scrambled to the toilet, ignoring his leg's scream at the motion, and poured first one bottle, then the other down. He flushed urgently, knowing that in just a few seconds, he might change his mind. The pills, the last of his stock, hoarded for a full year, swirled down the pipe and vanished.

House leaned back against the wall beside the toilet, sweating, his hand working his leg, his breathing still jagged, but somehow, he felt stronger.

Maybe he hadn't had much Vicodin, wherever he had found it. Maybe it wasn't enough to have to worry about hallucinations again if he stopped adding to it. He suddenly lurched to his feet, limping heavily toward the door, hurrying to the bedroom. What if he had hidden a new stash of whatever he had drunkenly obtained? He searched the apartment near frantically, as only an addict could, but in the end, he was forced to conclude that there was no Vicodin here. He collapsed onto the couch, putting the heating pad over his leg, and slowly let his breathing return to normal.

So _where _had he gotten Vicodin?

His mind shuddered a few times like a car reluctant to start on a cold morning and then shifted into the problem, working it out mentally. Think, House. He knew the effects of Vicodin. Let's come at it backwards. When had he noticed any difference at all in his leg over the past few weeks? If he could peg down dates, it would give him a starting point, at least neighborhoods and bars to avoid, places where he might have made a connection with a source.

He replayed the last few weeks in detail, everything since his last clean drug test, and he kept coming to the same conclusion. There was only one time when his leg had felt marginally better than he would have expected under that day's conditions, and that was yesterday morning, the morning following his final appointment with Nolan. He'd come home from that session, drunk up the last of his liquor at home, and staggered out to a bar. He had no memory of arriving home later, but when he had woken up, in spite of a hell of a hangover, in spite of the previous evening's rain, his leg had been muted somewhat.

Maybe he'd only had one dose, maybe just two or three pills, and he didn't seem to have brought any home with him. Just his luck that a random drug test had been slated for that very morning.

House's head snapped up suddenly, his eyes sharpening, as the epiphany hit. What if that wasn't just bad luck? What if it still was sabotage, and sabotage of a far more malicious and extensive scale than just a lab worker with a grudge? What if the choice of that night had not been random and had been _because _of the drug test the next day?

Who could have known the night before that a random drug test would be performed that morning? They were truly random, on no system even he had been able to determine in the last year.

The obvious answer was the person who chose the times for testing, Cuddy. No, he couldn't believe she had had anything to do with this. At least not directly.

But she did have a history of sharing confidential details. What if a casual comment made in innocence had been an opportunity for someone waiting for one?

He reached for his cell phone and dialed quickly. Cuddy answered on the second ring, with almost a note a relief in her voice. "House! Have you been thinking things over?"

"Very much so. Listen, Cuddy, did you tell anybody night before last that you planned to pull a random drug screen on me the next morning?"

He heard her sigh and filled in the rolled eyes well enough in his imagination. "House, are you still looking for an excuse?"

"No, damn it, I'm looking for an explanation. _Did you mention it to anybody?" _

"That's confidential information, House."

"Which, I'm afraid, hasn't stopped you before. _Please,_ Cuddy." The imploring sincerity in his tone derailed her annoyance for a moment. "Did you mention it at any point that evening?"

He heard the gears shift as her mind started to work. She was apparently going to humor him. "I think I mentioned it to Wilson. He came by right before he left. And then . . ." she trailed off, suddenly feeling guilty. Mentioning it to Wilson hadn't bothered her, but -

"Did you mention it to Lucas after you got home?"

"I . . . might have."

"Did he have a stakeout that night?"

"Yes, but . . ."

"Have you ever mentioned the tests to him? Is it something that's come up before?"

"I might have mentioned it once or twice." Her defensiveness suddenly kicked in. "House, this is a waste of time."

"Hopefully not. Thanks." He hit end and then speed dial 2.

Wilson answered on the fourth ring, probably having taken the first three to decide what tone to assume and what attitude to take here. "House. Are you okay?"

He ignored the question. "Wilson, night before last, did Cuddy mention to you right before you left that she was going to do a random drug screen on me the next morning?"

"Yeeeesss." Wilson drew the word out. "But what difference does it make? You weren't around to hear."

"Did you tell anybody else about that that evening?"

"Just how is that supposed to come up in casual conversation? Tipping the delivery guy? 'Thanks, here's your tip, and by the way, my friend House is getting a random drug test in the morning.'"

"The delivery guy. So you and Sam spent the evening at home and ordered out?"

"Yes, and again, what difference does it make?"

"I'm sure you talked while eating, probably watched TV later. Did you mention it to her at any point?"

Wilson's own defensiveness fired up. "House, this grudge you have against Sam is out of all proportion to reason."

"That wasn't a grudge; it was a question. Did you mention it to her?"

"I might have. I don't remember everything we talked about. She asked about my day, and I told her what had happened at the hospital."

"Including your conversation with Cuddy before leaving?"

"Yes." Wilson sighed, and House pictured the hands going to the hips. "House, just admit for once in your life that you screwed up and stop trying to shift the blame onto other people."

House ignored the jab, deep in mental differential. "Have you ever discussed the tests with her before?"

"We haven't been seeing each other that long. I think I'd mentioned the last one you had, yes."

"Night before last, was Sam home all that night?'

"Of course she was."

"Were _you _home all that night?"

"Yes. Well, mostly. I got called out about 1:30 a.m. to a patient. I waited until she died, then caught a nap in my office before work."

"Thanks." House sounded so sincere there that Wilson was left staring at the phone, his mouth still hanging half open for his next incomplete protest.

House put down his cell phone, his mind going at full gallop now. Two people, Lucas and Sam, both of whom hated him, both of whom had evidence that he had been drinking more lately. Lucas was observant enough and no doubt had made more of Cuddy's occasionally mentioned stories than she had. House was sure she would have mentioned his winding up in the wrong bed, for instance. Too good a House tale to miss sharing. Sam had been there the morning the police brought House back to the loft. Both had probably heard about previous drug tests from Cuddy and Wilson. Either could have concocted a plan to get him out of their respective partner's way for good and waited for the next opportunity.

But how? They couldn't have spiked his booze at the apartment, because that didn't stay around too long, and he'd run out on that evening. For one isolated incident of Vicodin, there had to be one isolated cause, not a hopeful repeated pattern. He would swear, or rather his leg would, that he hadn't had Vicodin until that night. Had they met him at a bar? Followed his drunken way home to share a nightcap with a little extra kick added?

The drinking. House sighed. Even if he was right and the Vicodin was sabotage specifically against that test, he couldn't escape the conclusion that he had set himself up for it with his behavior from the last few weeks. Making himself that vulnerable and gullible sickened him. No, the drinking definitely had to be dealt with. He didn't want to return to Nolan after the psychiatrist's judgmentalism and constant conclusion-jumping in that session, barely letting House speak before analyzing each comma of each sentence. But maybe he could find another therapist.

First things first. Find the saboteur, assuming there was one, and then he would try to find some more help for himself.

He thought for another 15 minutes, and then he picked back up the phone. Speed dial 1.

"House, what is it now?" Cuddy sounded annoyed. She'd probably spent the whole time since his last call ruminating on the implications.

"Cuddy, I need a favor."

She scoffed. "Forget it. You've run that bank balance down below zero. I've bailed you out enough. I'm sorry, House, but no."

"An easy favor. Hardly puts you out at all. Tell Lucas tonight about the failed drug tests, assuming you haven't already. Tell him I stalked out of the hospital and am no doubt home getting plastered tonight. Tell him there's a final drug test scheduled for the morning that will determine if the first ones were wrong."

Cuddy sighed. "House, Lucas would never . . ."

"Lucas isn't as innocent as that face looks. But really, what's the harm? It's pure hospital chit-chat. All you have to do is slip it into conversation. Please, Cuddy." His voice was pleading.

She hesitated. "If I do this, after nothing happens tonight, I want you to apologize to Lucas' face for doubting him."

"Done," he agreed quickly.

"And go back to rehab." He hesitated. "House."

He sighed. "Okay. If I set a trap tonight and nothing happens, I'll go back to rehab. But not with Nolan."

"Deal."

"Deal," he agreed.

He ended the call and then took a few minutes to strategize for Wilson. He'd fully expected Cuddy to wind up bargaining, because they worked like that, but Wilson would be harder. Wilson would be offended at the suggestion that Sam might have it in for House, maybe too offended to cooperate. Wilson's mind tended to skid to a halt when he was offended, unlike Cuddy who at least kept thinking. On the other hand, if House got Wilson offended enough, Wilson might well mention the requested info on second thought later just to prove House wrong, even if he said he wouldn't during this call. The thought of having to agree potentially to apologize to Sam was nearly as painful as his leg, but House could think of no way besides a trap to unsnarl this puzzle within his 48-hour deadline before he lost his license. He took out the phone.

Five minutes later, he hung up, satisfied that Wilson, though still sputtering denials, was far too offended not to play along later tonight just as a lesson to House. His Vicodin levels would be continually decreasing, although metabolism time varied a bit and might have been slowed more in his case by heavy drinking. But with an alleged final, all-or-nothing test tomorrow, any prospective enemy would be unable to resist a golden opportunity to top him off tonight, just to guarantee a strong positive.

The trap was set. Now, he just had to see which rat showed up to take the cheese.


	6. Chapter 6

Wilson entered the loft, still seeping exasperation from every pore. What an unbelievably brutal day, from the drug tests this morning to House walking out to House's new delusion this afternoon.

Yes, delusion. He had no doubt left that House not only was back on Vicodin but was already experiencing some of the same side-effects he finally did last spring. The pure conviction in House's voice, as if paranoia were a logical alternative to relapse, scared him. House was cracking up again, and all Wilson could do was stand and watch the fissures widen.

At least House had agreed under duress to rehab. Wilson had gone down to Cuddy's office after House's call, and the two of them had spent nearly an hour worriedly discussing their friend and his new crack-up. She had shared the fact that House had broken off therapy, too. But at least by her deal, after nothing happened tonight, he would return to rehab. Assuming he chose to remember that agreement tomorrow. Assuming he even _did_ remember that agreement tomorrow. Watching House self-destruct had been one of Wilson's occupations for years, it seemed, right along with his job. He was tired of it all. Maybe, after House was back in Mayfield, he could finally move on with his life while his friend got the help he needed. Of course, once House was in Mayfield, he wouldn't be coming back out again any time soon. The current catastrophe was far beyond what could be fixed with a short-term stay.

Sam came out of the kitchen area to greet him. "Hi." She studied his face. "Tough day?"

"House is cracking up again," Wilson informed her mournfully.

She tried to look sympathetic, for Wilson if not for House. "And you have to pick up the pieces as usual?"

"This is too big for me to pick up. He's hallucinating again. He even thinks . . ." Wilson pulled himself up on the edge of sharing House's paranoia. Maybe he would pass the fake message along to Sam, just to have one more piece of evidence tomorrow to throw in House's face that his fears were a product of chemically enhanced imagination. "He's back on Vicodin again. He failed a drug test yesterday morning, but he insists that he's not taking it. Of course, he's insisted that before when he actually was."

Sam shook her head. "So is he going to have to go back to the loony bin?"

"Yes, eventually. Cuddy is doing one more drug test tomorrow morning; he wanted a repeat in case the first was a false positive. But when that turns up positive, he's out of the hospital. No choice. With his active psychotic history, she can't have him there practicing while he's on drugs. He'll have to go through the whole process again if he ever wants his license back." Wilson shook his head, not having to fake the irritation. That was absolutely genuine. "He's in total denial, though. He's been drinking, you know, but he insists he's not on the drugs. In fact, he walked out of the hospital earlier today after Cuddy confronted him. I'm sure he's home getting totally wasted tonight and thinking about how everybody is against him."

Sam snuggled up next to him. "Let's not let House ruin our evening," she said. "Let's at least have some relaxation before you get called back to the hospital - if you do. But I know that other patient you'd mention is in her last few days."

"Right. I probably will get called back." He'd even send himself a false page, just to give her the opportunity so he could prove to House how absurd this whole thing was. "But that doesn't mean we can't have happy hour in the meantime."

Together, they fell onto the couch, and for a little while at least, Wilson was able to forget about House.

(H/C)

Cuddy entered her new house, feeling the headache still grinding behind her eyes. It had taken up residence there halfway through today and never left. Damn House.

Lucas was on the floor playing with Rachel, a domestic scene that made her smile, but he stood up as she came in. "My fiancee is home. I kind of like saying that."

Fiancee. She looked at the ring, startled. Once again, she hadn't even thought about it all afternoon, too busy with other things. She smiled again, looking at the ring. "It is a nice word."

"Did you get your hospital crisis dealt with?"

Might as well hit this right off and get it out of the way so she could enjoy the rest of the evening with her . . . um, fiance. "Not totally wrapped up, but tomorrow morning will finish it. House is back on Vicodin."

Lucas shook his head. "He seemed to be trying so hard."

"I think he was, but he's had a stressful few weeks, and he just snapped. He failed his drug test yesterday morning. But he insists that he didn't take any. He got me to agree to another test tomorrow morning, in case of lab error, but if that one is positive, that's it. I hate having to pull his license, but he really needs help."

"That's too bad," he agreed sympathetically. "I've always liked House. So there's a final test tomorrow morning?"

"Right. Good thing we won't be testing his blood alcohol. He went storming out of the hospital early this afternoon after I confronted him, and I'm sure he hit the liquor store on the way home and is trying to drink Princeton dry tonight. He really has been drinking too much lately, even aside from Vicodin."

"He needs help," Lucas stated. "Maybe he'll get it in rehab this time."

"Maybe. I hope so. He'll have to go back to Mayfield, of course. Do you have a stakeout tonight?"

"Yes. We've got time for a celebration dinner first, though."

"A celebration dinner?" Her tone was puzzled.

"Our engagement," he reminded her.

Oh yes. She'd forgotten again in talking about House. "Right. Let's celebrate."

She picked up Rachel from the floor and followed Lucas into the kitchen. This was what she wanted. Stability. Reliability.

But try as she might to focus, her thoughts were still with the blue-eyed genius sitting alone with his demons in the apartment across town, waiting for an imaginary villain.


	7. Chapter 7

House sat in his apartment, waiting.

Of course, he could have been drugged at a bar night before last, but he thought the action had occurred here, after he had returned after closing. He thought somebody had either followed him home from the bar or had been staking out the apartment waiting for his return. When he'd woken up, his leg had been still affected by the Vicodin, though not in the initial surge of relative pain relief. He thought probably he had been drugged in the last few hours before dawn. Besides, for tonight's trap purposes, it had to be here. Harder to pretend to drink in a bar, and he needed control of the environment. He looked over at the webcam, set up unobtrusively and recording, focused toward the couch.

He had been out for a full trip to the liquor store and had promptly poured a good bit of it down the drain, leaving just empty bottles for effect. He saved part of one bourbon bottle, and once it was well after dark, he poured himself one glass and gulped it down, successfully getting the smell of alcohol on his breath. He tipped more out dribbling down his shirt until he decided he smelled enough of liquor. Then he sat back to wait, the mostly empty bourbon bottle on the coffee table with the empty shot glass beside it. From this point, he would be acting, not actually drinking. The shot glass he'd selected was swirled glass, dark enough to maintain a long-distance illusion.

The alcohol still stunned him. How could he have possibly given such an opening to an enemy? To deliberate turn his mind, his proudest possession, off and open himself to attack was utterly stupid. But beyond that, he knew that even without enemies, his drinking had been getting out of control lately. It wasn't yet a full-blown addiction - he wanted another drink right now but wasn't salivating over it as he had the Vicodin, and he'd felt no withdrawal the last day - but he knew that it was heading that way. He had to deal with it. Waking up in the wrong apartment should have been enough of a literal wake-up call. It should never have taken laying himself open to attack to make him realize. He sighed. Well, this was one thing in his life that he wasn't going to keep screwing up. He'd get help somewhere. Not from Nolan, but somewhere.

Nolan. House was more hurt than he ever would have admitted that Cuddy's attitude had changed right after she'd talked to Nolan. To that point, she was trying to explore alternatives with him, but there, her mind shut down. Okay, so he hadn't told her about walking out of therapy, but it hadn't been something he was keeping from her deliberately to make this situation look better. Lost in the horror of being trapped, he hadn't even been thinking about that appointment until Cuddy had mentioned calling the psychiatrist. Too much else had been preoccupying him. But once she talked to Nolan, the fact that he'd broken off therapy automatically convicted him of a relapse in her eyes.

Wilson's attitude hurt, too, but it didn't bother him as much because he'd really expected it. Wilson was a good friend, and House thought he probably would be again, but Wilson at times hit overload when things got too much and simply shut down and walked away. The oncologist's most unreasonable point by far was love. Take Amber, for instance. House wasn't denying Wilson's grief, but keeping that sort of shrine over a year later and talking every night to a woman he'd only dated a few months was an extreme overreaction. House still felt bad about Amber, but she hadn't been Wilson's departed wife of 70 years, and his reaction to her death had elevated her to a pedestal that would have had Amber herself, if she'd seen it, rolling her eyes. She would have been the first to give Wilson a ghostly kick in the rear and tell him to get on with life. Now that Wilson finally was starting to get on with life, approaching it in his usual jump-into-the-deep-end fashion, he wouldn't be able to accept anything right now that he possibly perceived as against Sam. And implying that she had drugged and framed House certainly fell into the category of negative accusations.

But it wasn't that House wanted to believe in Sam as a suspect; it was that she fit the criteria. She and Lucas both did. Why couldn't the world stop having emotional reactions to logic? It wasn't that he wanted to find things against her so decided to blame her for the Vicodin. It was simply that 2+2=4, and on that alone, she was a candidate.

He glanced at his watch. Assuming that both Cuddy and Wilson had carried out their plans, probably over their respective tables, he figured he had maybe another hour before the earliest time anybody could get here. Easier for Lucas to leave given his job, but he had no doubt Sam could, too. She could think of some excuse if caught sneaking out once Wilson was asleep. He got up and spent the time playing the piano, then he checked the webcam again, opened the blinds, and set down to an imaginary alcoholic pity party in full view of anybody out on the street with binoculars.

He took his time, going through each imaginary glass, occasionally getting up for more, balance failing rapidly. He played the piano again once, forcing himself to hit progressively wrong notes, then staggered back over to the couch and settled down on the couch, reaching over to the bottles on the coffee table for refills, once letting one fall from slack fingers and roll away. It was disturbing to realize how well he knew all the stages of drunkenness, how easy it was to pretend. Yes, he had to get some help himself.

He was rapidly nearly what should be passing out stage, and his own doubts began to creep in. Was anybody watching? Was anybody coming? Was he in fact misreading the evidence?

The differential loaded up and ran again mentally. No, if he had taken Vicodin at the apartment early yesterday morning, which fit the data, and if there was no Vicodin here, which he'd proven, it had to have been brought in by another party. He tried to steady himself with the diagnosis, tried to pretend that his future career and all faith in himself didn't hang on this.

Maybe his visitor was waiting for him to pass out. He'd been thinking of some sort of spiked post-bar nightcap at the apartment, but the actual method of delivery had been a guess. Shoving pills into his mouth would work just as well, and he cringed to think that his body, with mind shut off, probably would have reacted automatically to the familiar taste and received them without resistance. He let himself fall into slack oblivion a few times, snapping out of it, and then let his eyes fall shut and stay that way, his head leaning back on the couch armrest, his mouth hanging slackly, thus providing escape for his alcohol breath, and everything but his ears apparently unconscious. His ears were alert for any possible sound. Come on, damn it, he accosted his unseen enemy. I'm right here, passed out, helpless. Get on with it.

Twenty minutes passed by ticked off in painful slowness by a clock in the room, and then there came the faintest rattle from the door. The sound of a key, sliding with infinite care into the lock. He kept his eyes shut, but his mind was racing. A key. Wilson had a key. Sam could have had it copied. On the other hand, Lucas could have easily swiped Wilson's for copying and returned it, either from the loft or from the hospital; Lucas had moved in and around the loft like it was his own.

Footsteps, soft but determined on the floorboards. He felt the presence over him, felt his enemy bend over and smell the alcohol fumes coming off. Between his breath and his shirt, House knew he smelled like a brewery. He kept absolutely still, giving the intruder enough rope to incriminate himself on webcam. To this point, it could have been passed off as being concerned and checking on someone. A rustle and the sound of something being pulled out of a pocket. House was waiting for the rattle of pills, but instead a voice came, and it took every bit of self control he had to avoid reacting as the impact of the words soaked in. This wasn't what he'd been expecting. This was even worse.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Glad you're enjoying the different story angle here. This really is more a pure mystery than a story of any specific ship, although it's more Huddy than any other pairing. But the mystery and unmasking are the center of it. I think my muse came at this one a bit differently from Pranks, etc., because I've got mysteries on the brain at the moment; as mentioned, the novel I'm blocking out mentally is definitely a full-length mystery, with all requisite case (a murder), deduction, and action, and it is my main focus right now. But this little House story was fun. I'm glad you like it. This chapter is, needless to say, probably the pivot of it, then a few wrap-up chapters. Thanks for the reviews.

(H/C)

House lay perfectly still, listening to Lucas and mentally kicking himself. He still had not been seeing the larger picture, and if he had thought for a bit about motives, he could have guessed.

"He's totally passed out," Lucas said into his cell phone. His voice even now was as calm, pleasant, and amiable as ever. He gave House a poke, eliciting no response. "Yes, I'm sure. He's dead to the world. You can come on in now, Tritter."

House focused on his breathing, keeping it absolutely even. In and out. But when he expanded his criteria from those who knew about the test to people in general with a grudge against him, who would love to see him publicly disgraced and relapsed, who would have no trouble at all obtaining Vicodin, Tritter leaped to the head of the list. It had been Tritter managing the frame-up, with Lucas passing along information provided by Cuddy. The door to the apartment opened just then, and he heard the detective's footsteps, heavy and authoritarian, unmistakable even after these years. Tritter walked up to the couch, bent over to inspect House up close, and laughed. "Doesn't look like such a big shot now, does he?"

"Hardly." Lucas studied his comatose opponent. "I'll never see what Lisa saw in him. And by tomorrow, she ought to say the same. Which reminds me, I said I'd call Sam once we were sure it was a go tonight. She's waiting on pins and needles." House fought to keep his breath even, his eyes shut, his face slack. He could hear Lucas dialing. "Sam, we're in. He's plastered; he'll never know we were here, any more than he did the other night. No, we haven't given him the pills yet, but it won't be a problem. It sure wasn't the first time. Like giving candy to a baby; he was practically smacking his lips in his sleep by the third one." House cringed. Yes, he swore he would stop drinking after tonight. He had laid himself wide open for everything, including taking Vicodin again. He kept himself motionless, wanting them to keep talking as long as they were willing, helpfully incriminating themselves on camera. "Right, by tomorrow he'll be history, and all three of us get what we want. I'll call you again after we leave. Bye."

Tritter pulled out the bottle of Vicodin from his pocket and shook it, letting the pills rattle. "He had three the other night. I think I'll give him four tonight, keep ramping it up. Of course, he might have had some of his own in the meantime. I'm sure he's got a stash somewhere around here."

"More convenient to use confiscated drugs from narcotics, though. He's out, but we don't want to waste too much time hanging around," Lucas said. "Appreciate your help on the Vicodin, though. I could have gotten some, but that would be illegal."

Tritter laughed again. "We wouldn't want to break any laws, would we? Like I said, the only payment I want is the satisfaction of giving him the pills myself." He popped the bottle open. "Okay, House. Here comes your best friend."

"Pretty much his _only_ friend now," Lucas pointed out. "Wilson has moved on, Lisa's moved on. That's about all he has left."

Tritter put one firm hand on House's shoulder, moving the pill toward his mouth. Simultaneously, House's mouth snapped shut and his eyes snapped open. He smoothly sat up, looking at the detective. "Not tonight, thanks."

Lucas was the one who looked rattled. He stared at House, then at the alcohol bottles, then back at House. Tritter, on the other hand, looked pleased. Much more fun to get the best of somebody when they are conscious and know it's you claiming victory. "Well, I guess you'll be joining us for the last act. But you know what, House? It doesn't make any difference." The hands reached out again.

House tried to get up, but he had been in one position for a while, and his damned leg seized up on him. Before he could move off the couch, Tritter had him firmly pinned. "Having some trouble with your leg?" the detective asked. "I've got just the thing for that."

"Tritter, maybe we should get the hell out of here," Lucas suggested.

The detective shook his head. "Why? He's already heard us, with or without Vicodin. Might as well go ahead and throw the test for tomorrow. Sure, he'll protest, but nobody is going to believe him, especially not with his very high Vicodin level. Hold still, House. Make it easy for yourself."

House was still struggling, totally pinned. Damned leg. "I'll have bruises," he pointed out.

"Drunks often do," Tritter replied. The first pill came up, and House locked his teeth together. Tritter's hands moved to his jaw, forcing it open, and the pill was shoved in just as House, in a convulsive effort, managed to push the detective back. He rolled off the couch, landing on his leg, taking a moment to spit out the pill even as his mind joined his leg in screaming for him to swallow it. Before he could get up off the floor, Tritter was on him again. House's head banged against a leg of the coffee table. Tritter's face was over him, the pupils dilated, the detective almost looking sexually aroused as he pushed the other man into the floor. Lucas stood slightly shocked but mesmerized, too, like watching a violent sporting event. Tritter's hand came up with another pill, and House opened his mouth this time and sank his teeth into the fleshy part of Tritter's hand. The detective yelped and pulled back in reflex, and House landed a satisfyingly solid punch, rocking Tritter back and gaining space to get at least to a sitting position.

"You can't win," Tritter emphasized, coming at him again.

House dodged the blow meant for his head, taking it in the ribs. "One thing you didn't count on in your master plan, Tritter," he panted out.

The detective actually stopped at that, looking puzzled, unable to resist exploring criticism of his victory. "What's that?'

House nodded toward the webcam across the room. "Smile," he said. "You're on Candid Camera." Tritter turned to stare at it, and House's punch landed full on the side of his head, knocking him over. By the time he recovered, shaking his head a little, House had made it painfully up to his feet. Lucas was still a spectator but now a horrified one, staring at the webcam. Behind him, the apartment door started to open.

Tritter started forward again. "Nice try," he said, "but you're bluffing. We'll switch it off and delete it on our way out, but nobody's on it live. You don't have anybody who would believe you enough to be watching it tonight."

"You're wrong." Tritter and Lucas both spun in shock, staring toward the door, and House took the opportunity to land an even better blow. Tritter went down with such a thud that the floor shuddered as he hit. "I called 911 from the car, House. Sorry for the delay; didn't expect things to get violent."

House limped a few steps to the couch and collapsed into it. "I didn't either. Think Tritter's down for the count, but keep an eye on him, would you?" He nodded toward Lucas, who was still standing in utter shock, mouth hanging open, looking almost drunk himself..

The latest arrival picked up a spare cane from next to the door, brandishing it threateningly. "Sure." He glanced at House, who was rubbing his thigh furiously, but did not ask if he was okay.

"And thank you," House said sincerely.

In the distance outside, the approaching sirens became audible. "You're welcome," Chase replied.


	9. Chapter 9

It took time to explain the whole story to the police, of course. Tritter was hauled off to the hospital to be checked (with House specifying not PPTH) and Lucas to jail, both under arrest just based on the initial statements from House and Chase, but an officer stayed behind to get the full tale. He then watched the whole thing recorded and stored on line by the webcam, as well as downloading that video to a flash drive and also directly to police headquarters as evidence, with himself, House, and Chase signing an evidence ticket certifying the source of it. Finally, he was gone with a request that House and Chase both come down to the station the next day to sign their transcribed statements. An officer had already been dispatched to the loft to pick up Sam Carr for processing.

House leaned back into the couch cushions and closed his eyes as the door shut. He was vindicated, with no chance now that he would lose his license or his job, but there was no rush of victory. Cuddy and Wilson both had some hard facts to face, and he also himself had to admit that he had enabled the trio to sabotage him. Without his drinking, none of this would have happened.

Hands probed gently along the side of his head, where it had whacked against the coffee table leg during the fight, and he opened his eyes and pulled away slightly. "I'm okay," he protested.

Chase didn't look convinced. "Your breathing is still a little bit accelerated," he said. He pulled out a penlight and flashed it into House's eyes. "You've already got a bruise showing up on that temple. Don't think you have a concussion, but even aside from the leg, you're kind of banged up. I missed the very last bit of the fight because I was running over from the next block after I called 911, but you can see on video that he got you a few hard blows in the ribs." He palpated along the left side of House's chest, and House flinched, his breath hissing in sharply. "I think you need x-rays. Make sure there's not a fracture irritating a lung."

"I'm FINE, Chase," House snapped.

Chase shook his head. "Nope, if you suddenly developed a pneumothorax tonight and died after I left, I'd lose my job. Totally selfish motives here, but humor me." House grinned weakly in appreciation. "You also need something for the leg; I can tell it's giving you hell."

"Got ibuprofen here." For all that was worth.

Chase flinched. "That's not strong enough. Seriously, House, there are stronger non narcotic options. Have you even seen a pain management specialist in the last year?"

House shook his head. "Nope. I learned at Mayfield that most of my problems were just in my head, after all." His tone was bitter.

"Bullshit." Chase took his pulse. "They're psychiatrists and social workers; understanding the medical side of chronic pain isn't their forte. And your heart rate is easily over 100."

"Hot bath will loosen it up," House suggested, then trailed off, remembering that his bathtub was full of broken glass.

"If we go to the hospital, I'll check you out myself," Chase offered. "We won't have to go through the crowd in ER. It's 2:00 a.m.; nobody else has to be involved."

House sighed and closed his eyes again. He did feel pummeled, he was having slight difficulty breathing against the ribs, and his leg was absolutely screaming. "Okay."

Chase stood up. "I'll go get you another shirt that doesn't have alcohol spilled all over it for dramatic effect." That also would give him a better chance for a preliminary look at any torso damage to plan what needed to be checked out at the hospital.

"Thanks," House replied. He still had his eyes closed. Maybe it could all be over now, for him at least.

Wilson and Cuddy. His eyes snapped open. They deserved a heads up before getting the news by a call from their respective partners from jail. Of course, if Wilson had been home, he would have seen them come for Sam anyway, but maybe he was out with a patient again. House whipped out the cell phone and flinched again at the stab in his side. Maybe Chase had a point and x-rays wouldn't be a bad idea.

He dialed Cuddy first, not even thinking about the choice. He would call Wilson, but he would call her first. She answered the phone, sounding not sleepy at all. Probably had been lying awake in bed wondering what, if anything, was happening over here. "House?"

"Cuddy, I wanted to tell you before you hear it from the police. Lucas is under arrest."

He heard the mattress creak and then the click of the bedside lamp. "He really did . . ." She trailed off, but he heard the growing guilt beneath the shock.

"He and Sam and Tritter as a bonus. They were all working together. I've got it on video; you can watch it later if you want. And Chase was watching from his car as backup a block over; he'll confirm." He was afraid she'd believe he was hallucinating again.

"Tritter?" Her voice was incredulous. "Oh, God, House, I'm sorry. Lucas was feeding him information from me, wasn't he?"

"Fraid so."

Over his shoulder, he heard Chase coming back into the living room. "Okay, House, let's head for the hospital."

Cuddy overheard. "For the _hospital?_" Odd, he thought. She sounded even more upset at that than she had at any point in the conversation so far.

"Just precautions. Chase is being overprotective of his job. I'm fine," House said quickly.

"Let me talk to him," she insisted.

"Got to go. I still have to call Wilson."

"_House_." He sighed and passed the phone over, and Chase handed him the clean T-shirt in exchange.

"Hi, Cuddy. . . He's kind of banged up, and I think he may have a few cracked ribs. Plus straining the leg, of course. Hit his head, but I don't think he's got a concussion. I don't think he's seriously hurt . . . I'll check him out, I promise . . . Yes, Tritter was here. He's the one who got violent; Lucas was just a spectator. House took him down before I could help, though. . . Right, I will. See you there." Chase ended the call and eyed House, who had spent that interval struggling to remove his T-shirt. His ribs didn't like him lifting his left arm. Chase silently put a hand on the recalcitrant shirt, offering to help him, and after a few seconds, House relaxed in resignation. Chase carefully worked it off, being careful to not move House's arms any more than he had to, and then whistled softly at the blossoming bruises in a few locations, mainly along the ribs on the left. House looked down, surprised himself.

"Cuddy's going to meet us at the hospital," Chase said, taking visual census of the injuries but not directly saying anything about them.

"She doesn't have to do that."

"She's feeling guilty."

House shrugged and winced. "Of _course_ she's feeling guilty. That's what Cuddy does with everything. It's a reflex." Chase looked at him skeptically. "I've got to call Wilson."

"Okay." Chase helped slip the clean T-shirt on, then backed away, and House hit speed dial 2.

"Did you give up, House?" The oncologist sounded impatient as he answered.

"You're not home, are you?"

"No, I'm at the hospital to give Sam an opportunity to sneak out, although I'm sure she's in bed."

"Wrong. I'm sure she's arrested by now."

Absolute silence for several seconds. "Arrested?" Wilson sputtered. "She actually came over there?"

"No, but she was in on it. Lucas and Tritter came."

"Tritter?" House could hear Wilson's increasing agitation on the phone.

"Sam and Lucas have been feeding Tritter information as to the dates of the tests. They all planned framing me together. Tritter wanted to give me the pills himself; he apparently did night before last; managed to stop him tonight."

"All _three _of them?" Wilson was still floundering.

"Right. I've got video, if you want to watch it later; Lucas talks directly to Sam on it. And Chase was watching live."

Wilson sighed. "So the whole thing really was a setup."

"Yes."

He could almost hear the oncolgoist's shoulders slumping. "I . . . I can't believe it."

"I'll send you the video."

"No, I mean . . . I wasn't saying you were lying . . . I just . . .it's a lot to wrap my head around." Wilson was still scrambling mentally. "I'm sorry, House."

"Yeah, me too. Got to go." House hit end.

Chase looked at him, trying to hide the sympathy. "Wilson having trouble believing it?"

"Yeah. I don't think he thinks I'm hallucinating, but he'll take a while to get a handle on everything. I'm sure he'll be around full of remorse tomorrow." And when he did, what would House do? Right now, he felt much more like actually making a go of living in his apartment than moving back in with his friend who had tossed him out on his ear, then refused to believe him.

"We need to get to the hospital," Chase prompted. House nodded and reached for his cane. "One more thing, House."

"Why not? Surely this night has room for one more thing in it."

Chase grinned disarmingly. "I just wanted to say, for the last month I've been going to . . . meetings. Every Tuesday night. You're welcome to come along with me if you want."

House stared at him. Yes, actually, Chase's drinking, threatening to spiral out of control after Dibala, had been better lately, karoke night slip-ups aside. The hangover mornings from Chase were less frequent. The thought of going to a support group still set his teeth on edge, but he could no longer deny after the last few days that he had a problem. "I might do that," he said softly.

Chase nodded. "We can grab a burger or something on the way, maybe. And really, they aren't as painful as I was afraid they would be." He stepped back, switching to pure professionalism. "Let's go."

House painfully picked himself up out of the couch cushions and limped heavily toward the door, Chase following.


	10. Chapter 10

Next to last chapter. Last one will finish it, including a final Wilson scene and my own final Huddy scene (which still isn't the final scene of the story, and even the last full final scene isn't the last scene, because of course, it ends with a classic House montage). By the end of that chapter, if you go back through the whole story, you'll have a very good idea of the several things I disliked about S6 in general and how, were I David Shore, it would have gone. Well, actually, were I David Shore, it would have gone differently starting back in S5 toward the end, with Thirteen committing suicide, not Kutner (yes, I know there were reasons the actor left. I can still wish Kutner were still around). Thanks for tuning in for this alternate finale, and enjoy the last two chapters!

(H/C)

House sat on the table in Radiology, his shirt off. Chase had just finished taking a set of x-rays.

Cuddy burst through the door like a guilty whirlwind. Her eyes took in the developing bruises and widened. "House . . ."

"I'll go develop those films," Chase offered quickly. "Are the meds helping at all?"

"Yes," House replied. The non-narcotic cocktail of pain medicine and antispasmodics Chase had brought him was doing a better job than ibuprofen, though not up to Vicodin levels.

"Good. Back in a few minutes," Chase stated. He turned, and as he passed Cuddy, he said, "You need to watch that video." He was gone before she could reply.

She walked over to the exam table, taking visual inventory of the deep bruising across his ribs and the smaller whack along his temple, as well as the way his hand was resting on his thigh. She didn't ask if he was okay, knowing he was likely to downplay it anyway, but she'd definitely be here when Chase came back with the x-rays. "I am so sorry, House," she said again.

"Got a notepad?" he asked.

Of course she did. She carried half the world in her purse, as he had once joked. She pulled it out and offered it to him, and he jotted down a web address and then handed it to her. "Chase is right. You need to watch that."

"I believe you - now," she added belatedly.

"Not just for me. You need to watch Lucas, so you'll understand. He's a sociopath, Cuddy. You're better off alone than you are with him."

She stared down at the ring, then ripped it off her finger, almost as if it were hot. "I'll throw his damned ring in his face."

House shook his head. "Sell it. Might as well get something from him."

Cuddy couldn't help chuckling slightly. Such a Housian response. "I might do that." She shook her head. "I can't . . . he's been using me all along, hasn't he?"

"Yes," House replied simply.

"Even proposing to me yesterday; he _knew _what was happening. He deliberately picked that time to try to contrast against the false image he was painting of you."

"Probably. Not so much a false image, though. If I hadn't been drinking . . ." He trailed off. "I laid myself wide open to it."

"That doesn't excuse him. He took advantage - of you and me both. Tell me about Tritter, House."

Pinpoints of blue fire lit up in his eyes. "Apparently, Tritter never believed in my rehab anyway, anymore than you all did."

"House, I. . ." She started to protest, then stopped. And when exactly this past year _had_ she indicated that she believed in his rehab? He had a point. "I'm sorry," she said again.

"Anyway," he continued, "Sam and Lucas both wanted me out of the way. I actually put them in touch unintentionally; I had Lucas investigate Sam. But I never read what he put together. It might have been total fabrication. Since then, he and Sam had been in communication on how to get me out of the picture. You and Wilson both had mentioned the last drug test." Cuddy cringed again, remembering how regularly all year long she had passed along details about House to that snake, who had been just storing them up for any possible use. "They also both knew, from you and also from me, how much I'd been drinking lately. They decided to throw the next test, whenever it was mentioned to either of them, and both you and Wilson brought it up. Meanwhile, Lucas brought Tritter into the loop, since he knew Tritter held a grudge and might be an easy source of confiscated Vicodin. Tritter was only too glad to play along. In fact, his one condition was that he give the pills to me myself. So two nights ago, I came back from Nolan, drank at home, went out to a bar, and came home plastered. They were trailing me, which I was too drunk to notice." Self-annoyance dripped off his tone. "Once I got home and passed out, Lucas came in first to be sure the coast was clear. If I'd woken up, he could have had some story about checking on me. He called Tritter in once he was sure I was passed out, Tritter gave me the Vicodin, and then Lucas called Sam, who was waiting for a report." He sighed. "I walked straight into it."

"So did I," she said. "House, I am so sorry. I should have at least listened to you."

"You did at first," he reminded her.

"Until I talked with Nolan. What exactly happened with Nolan?"

"He went all Wilson on me. Overanalyze every statement without listening to what I was saying at all. Maybe he'd had a bad day; he's usually not quite that bad. Not saying that I'm a saint to deal with in a session, and I have been slipping lately with the drinking, but he was over the top in that one. He even at one point pulled out a magazine, said he had no reason even to listen to me, and then said he was still charging me for the time while he sat there reading."

Cuddy flinched. "That's pretty unprofessional."

"Yes. So there you have something he didn't tell you, to go with me not telling you about walking out. I'm not the only one in the world who withholds data."

"I'm sorry, House," she said again. "I was too quick to switch off and judge you. I wish . . . you'd keep seeing someone, but I understand if you don't want it to be him."

"I will," he agreed instantly, surprising her. "I'll find some other psychiatrist and keep going to sessions. Lord knows I need it; I'm the most screwed-up person in the world."

"I'm starting to think you've got some good competition for that title," she replied. "Between me and Wilson, it would be a tight race."

He chuckled and then flinched, and she felt guilty all over again. Just then, Chase came back into the room, holding x-ray films. He walked over to the wall box and put the films up. "Three cracked ribs on the left. You'll be pretty sore, but they don't look bad enough to worry about a pneumothorax. And no concussion. Just assorted bruises and bangs, really."

"So like I said, I'm fine," House emphasized. He picked up his shirt and immediately got into a struggle with putting it on.

Cuddy rolled her eyes and reached over to assist him, carefully keeping all sympathy out of her voice. "Right. You're perfectly fine. I'll let you off clinic duty for a little while, at least, to minimize time moving around and on your feet."

House looked directly at her. "So I'm not going to lose my license?" he asked. He knew, but he wanted first-hand confirmation.

"No," she said softly.

"I'll drive you back home if you want," Chase offered. "You need to get some rest."

"I'll drive him," Cuddy said, but House shook his head.

"No, Chase will drive me. I want you to watch that video. Like I said, you need to see Lucas as he is. He'll tell you more there than I ever could."

"Okay," she yielded. "I'll go to my office and watch the video."

"And email the site to Wilson," House requested. "He needs to see it, too."

"I will," she replied. "Get some rest, House. I'll see you later."

He nodded shortly and then stiffly slid down off the table and limped for the door, Chase following him. Cuddy looked at the ring she still held in her hand, then dropped it into her purse. She was surprised how little mourning she felt over the relationship with Lucas. Maybe there never had really been a relationship there to mourn. No, all of her regret was in what she, not just Lucas but she, had put House through.

(H/C)

House limped slowly into his apartment, feeling like he had aged 100 years in the past day. "Do you want me to stay?" Chase offered.

House shook his head. "Go home. You've been up all night, too." It was nearly 4:30 a.m. by now.

"Okay. I'll see you later, House."

House turned back to face him. "Thanks," he said again.

Chase grinned at him. "Tritter was wrong, you know. You have more friends than you think you do, and there are still people who believe in you." He turned without waiting for a reply and left the apartment.

House locked the door and limped slowly down the hall to the bedroom. Not taking time to undress, he collapsed on top of the covers, too tired to stay awake any longer, too tired even to keep thinking. Part of his mind went to Cuddy and Wilson, watching the video, seeing the naked truth. But it was better that they saw the naked truth now than after their weddings. Before he could move on from that thought, he was sound asleep.

(H/C)

It was nearly noon when Sam stalked out of the police station, thoroughly annoyed. Wilson stood on the steps outside, waiting. "Thanks for bailing me out - finally," she said, wishing he'd done it a few hours earlier.

"You're welcome," he replied automatically, but his hands were on his hips. She sighed.

"You want to know why, don't you?"

Wilson burst into speech like the floodgates opening on a dam. "Yes, damn it. How could you take part in something like that? He could have lost his job, gone back to Mayfield. He could have actually started hallucinating again. You tried to _destroy_ him."

"We all know he would have relapsed eventually," she countered. "I just didn't see any point in letting him ruin our relationship in the meantime."

"He wasn't even _in _our relationship," Wilson protested. "I'd asked him to move out. I was spending time with you. I was doing everything right. Why did you think you had to get rid of him?"

"I've been talking to Bonnie and Julie," Sam stated. "You can find almost anyone on Facebook. We got to talking, when I started seeing you, about what they thought would improve the odds this time. Both of them gave me the same answer - get totally rid of House. He was always underfoot, always in the way, always needing something. He takes too much of your attention. Don't misunderstand; I'm not saying it's sexual, and they weren't either, but he's like a leech that drains all the time and energy off you. You don't have room for a friend like that and for a wife. He has no other friends; everything has to come to you. And with him mentally unstable now. . . "

Wilson cringed, hearing the echo of Tritter and Lucas from the video, that House was totally friendless. And he heard Chase's voice saying, "You're wrong." But he was forced to admit that Sam and Lucas had gotten that idea from himself and Cuddy, as well as the idea that relapse was inevitable. Had he really been that unsupportive and run down his friend that much to others? "He's not just a leech," he protested. "He's a better friend at times than I've been to him."

Sam shook her head. "You pegged him yourself. You called him a nightmare. Doesn't sound like a good friend to me."

"No," Wilson replied, remembering making that statement. "That doesn't sound like a good friend." He was referring to himself.

"Can we get off these steps and go home?" she asked. "Jail isn't the most comfortable place to spend the night."

He stared at her. "You really think after all that that I'd go on with you?"

She tried to move in closer, and he pulled stiffly away. "Maybe I went too far, but I just wanted us to have a chance to be happy," she said. "I did it for us. So I guess House has ruined another relationship after all."

Wilson shook his head. "House didn't ruin my previous marriages; I did that, with some help from the three of you. But House sure didn't ruin our second chance. You did that all on your own." He stepped away. "I'll be gone for the rest of the afternoon. When I get home, I'll expect your things to be moved out. Goodbye, Sam." He turned and left, leaving her standing on the steps of the police station, staring after him.


	11. Chapter 11

Tough Wilson conversation ahead and a maybe not quite as tough but still not cliched happy ending Cuddy conversation, but I genuinely believe that both of them have one coming to have any kind of consistency with what S6 as a whole has shown us. :) Thanks for reading this story.

(H/C)

House opened his eyes, aware of late afternoon sunlight spilling across the bed. He had been sleeping like a log all day. He pushed himself up to blink blearily at the clock and felt his leg clench at the change in position, and he smiled slightly. Never before had he thought it was reassuring to have his leg give him hell upon awakening, but now it was sweet confirmation that he had had no Vicodin in his sleep. Chase might have a point about a pain specialist, though. Even in the Vicodin days, House tended to resent his leg anyway enough to resent a designated appointment and examination to evaluate it, but the ibuprofen really was not working, in spite of Nolan and the staff at Mayfield recommending it. Furthermore, he was starting to feel his stomach rebel, and a bleeding ulcer from overuse of NSAIDs wasn't an improvement over a stressed liver from acetaminophen.

A rattle came from down the hall, and House froze, his blood running cold, his heart skipping a beat.

_Someone was in the apartment with him._

As stealthily as he could, he achieved a vertical state, flinching at the pain in his ribs, waited for his leg to resign itself to function, and then crept down the hall in sock feet, gripping his cane firmly, prepared to make it a weapon instead of a support. He could hear better now, someone just around the corner in the kitchen nook. House raised the cane, turned the corner, and almost dislocated a shoulder and pulled his cracked ribs apart trying to stop the blow just as Wilson turned around unknowingly to leave the kitchen and nearly took the whack across the face. The cane thunked against his chest, most of the force pulled, as House staggered and saved himself from falling only by catching himself with his right hand on the wall.

"What the hell?" Wilson stared at House, then down at the fallen cane. "It's me, House."

House was still breathing rapidly, left arm braced against his ribs. "What the hell are you sneaking into my apartment for while I'm asleep?"

"I wasn't sneaking. I have a key." Understanding abruptly flooded the oncologist's eyes. "Wait a minute, did you think somebody else had come to do something to you?"

"Well considering that the last time somebody entered the apartment while I was lying down, I was assaulted, and the time before that while I was asleep, I was force fed Vicodin, yes, when I heard somebody creeping around, you weren't my first candidate."

"I'm sorry, House. I wasn't thinking. Are you all right?" he asked. House was still leaning against the wall, weight off his right leg, left arm bracing his ribs.

"Just great. Do you have any idea how close your head came to being a baseball?"

"I'm sorry," Wilson repeated. "I knew you were asleep, and I was trying not to wake you up. I should have called first." Wilson reached out to touch his friend's arm. "Why don't you sit down?"

"Thanks, since it's my apartment, I think I will." House limped over and sat on the couch, grabbing an ibuprofen bottle on the coffee table and gulping two. His heart rate gradually began to slow.

Wilson followed him anxiously. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I didn't realize when you called early this morning that Tritter had hurt you. You didn't mention it. I would have checked on you when you came in; I was still in the hospital."

"I hurt him, too," House pointed out with satisfaction.

Wilson grinned. "Yes, you did. Chase got an update on him from the police, by the way. He's in Princeton General - he has a mild concussion - but he's also been committed for psychiatric evaluation. The man has apparently totally lost it. He kept insisting that it was his appointed mission to prove to the world what you really were like, and that the police and the hospital staff were interfering and would be punished by divine curse. They've had to restrain him. I think last night really knocked him over the edge."

House remembered the glitter in the detective's eyes, the look of fanaticism, the look of a megalomaniac. "I never thought he was totally mentally stable anyway."

"And yet you antagonized him years ago, of course," Wilson pointed out.

"Only after he assaulted me," House replied. Wilson looked astonished. "Yes, he assaulted me before I ever touched him with a thermometer. Kicked my cane out from under me in the exam room."

Wilson shook his head. "I never even asked what started it. Listen, House, I'm sorry. For everything."

"Is that why you were sneaking into my apartment? To apologize?"

"Partly. I also wanted to make some macadamia nut pancakes for when you woke up. And I wanted to tell you that Sam is history. Charges for her are the lightest, just conspiracy and not direct action, but I bailed her out so she could hit the highway. I was wrong about her - and about you. You can move back into the loft."

"No," House replied, his tone pleasant but with iron rods running through the middle of it.

Wilson stuttered slightly over that, having not expected it. "But . . . but . . . Sam's _gone,_ House. You can come back now."

"Sam wasn't the one who wanted me to leave," House reminded him. "You were."

"I . . . I didn't really mean that. I wasn't thinking clearly. I was just wrapped up in wanting that to work. I apologize, okay?"

"Okay, but I'm not coming back. I'm going to try living here again in my own apartment."

Wilson was still scrambling to wrap his head around this. It had never occurred to him that House wouldn't come back as soon as the opportunity arose. "But we bought the loft."

"No, you bought the loft, as you have made sure to tell me several times, usually when I was trying to use your bathtub to soak my leg."

"That's not fair, House, to . . ."

House's voice cut straight across his protests. "Damn right, that's not fair. You wanted me there to make you feel useful, but you didn't want me to ever forget whose place I was living in. You refused to even get a bed for the Amber shrine for weeks. You wanted me to sleep in there with pictures of the woman I'd just gotten out of the loony bin for hallucinating. You made me think I was hallucinating again and even when you were aware of that fear did nothing to explain to me what was really going on. You didn't want me using the tub when my leg was tied up into knots a sailor couldn't have undone. You paid people to spend time with me so you wouldn't have to. All this year, you've been teetering on a seesaw whether you really wanted me around in your apartment or not, in spite of what you said to Nolan. I appreciate you giving me the place to live, Wilson, but I think it's time for both of us to go back to our own separate places."

Wilson stared. "You mean you don't want to be friends?"

"YES, I want to be friends. But I think that at this point, we are feeding off each other's problems more than we are helping each other by spending that amount of time together. And yes, I said each other's problems. Wilson, you need help nearly as much as I do. You talk to your dead girlfriend who's been gone 6 times as long as you even knew her. You put yourself into life-threatening surgery for people you only meet _once _a year who suddenly call themselves your best friend just to manipulate you. I have problems, and I'm working on them, but I really think you need a shrink badly yourself."

Wilson's mouth was hanging open. "You think _I'm _screwed up."

"Yes. I think you are a friend, and I also think you're screwed up. Please, Wilson, get some help yourself. Your current therapist isn't earning his fee."

Wilson was still stunned. "You think I'm screwed up," he repeated.

"Yes. We're both screwed up. At least I admit it. I think we've gotten to a point that we'll both focus better on our separate issues living apart."

Wilson slowly stood up. "Do you want my key back?"

"No. I'm not saying we can't be friends. I'm saying please start working on your own issues, too. I have a lot to keep working on myself, but I am trying."

The oncologist stared at him. "The pancakes are in plastic container with a lid by the stove," he said. He turned and walked out. House flinched, feeling sorry for him, but he really did think that Wilson needed some help himself - his blindness with Sam just confirming this - and he also thought that they didn't need to be living together any longer. He'd expected Wilson to sputter, lock up, and walk out whenever this conversation came. He only hoped the oncologist would think about it, process it, and actually start to listen to the words later.

(H/C)

House was just finishing the pancakes when a knock came at the door. He stood up, peered through the peep hole - it would take him a while to forget Tritter coming in here - and then opened the door.

"Can we talk?" Cuddy asked.

"Uh oh. The three most dreaded words in the English language," House quipped. "I didn't do it. I've been asleep all day." He stepped back, letting her in.

"How are you feeling?"

"Sore but alive." He dropped onto the couch, and she sat down in the chair.

"I really am . . ."

"I know, you're sorry. You don't have to say it 100 times, Cuddy. Yes, you were blind, but he's a con artist."

She shuddered. "I can't stop watching that video. I nearly married . . .THAT." Her tone couldn't have been more disgusted had she found a tarantula in her bed. "And the things he said, the things he'd picked up from me . . . House, I am so sorry for this last year. I have been proud of your recovery and your efforts, but I just was afraid to show anything. I was trying to make myself not think of you, trying to convince myself I wasn't settling." She looked across at him. "But it never worked. The whole time with Lucas, I kept thinking of you. It's always been you, always. I'm sorry I tried to look other places. None of them have your dazzling eyes, or your sense of humor, or your razor-sharp mind, or any of dozens of other things about you I could list off. You are the one I want." She paused. "House, do you think there is any way that we could work?"

House closed his eyes, seeing what he'd dreamed about, what he'd _hallucinated_ about, right in front of him, hearing words he'd longed to hear for years - and knowing that neither one of them was in any shape right now to be starting a new relationship.

"House?" Cuddy was sounding worried now, though he couldn't tell whether for him physically or for wondering if he didn't want her.

He opened his eyes. "I think . . . that both of us have some other things we need to focus on right now. I don't need to be your rebound from Lucas, and you don't need to be my rebound from Vicodin. I think - I hope - maybe, someday, yes. But I know that today isn't someday. Right now, after the past year, we aren't ready for this." He broke off because she was staring at him in near shock. "What?"

"You have made _so _much progress this year, and you just confirmed it." She gave him a watery smile. "You're right. You always are. Damn you; it really gets annoying."

He sat up a little straighter in the couch cushions, flinching as his ribs pulled. "I'm not saying no, Cuddy. I want you. I've always wanted you."

"I know. You're saying we need to get our respective heads on straighter first."

"Right." He shook that head. "I'm still learning how to relate to people. I'm still struggling to stay off Vicodin - and I'm on my way to becoming an alcoholic. I'm going to start therapy again, and Chase invited me to AA with him."

She straightened up, just a flash of the administrator showing through. "That's great, House, but Chase is going to AA?"

"Yes. Which is _good_. Don't penalize him for trying to stop digging and start to climb out of the hole."

"I won't," she promised. "I was just surprised. I had no idea. I guess I've missed a lot this past year while I was having my own delusion. I know I haven't been as good at the hospital as I used to. And you're right, I need to work through some things myself first."

"This is too important to screw up from the start," he told her.

She nodded. "Okay. You're right. But someday."

"Someday," he confirmed.

She got up and walked over to the couch, bending over to pick up his hand. "House, you are worth waiting for." She gave his hand a squeeze, and he squeezed it back, and then she gave him the lightest brushing kiss, a promise for the future. "Don't get up; I know it makes your ribs hurt. I'll see you at the hospital tomorrow, assuming you feel like coming in."

"See you tomorrow," he said. "And Cuddy?"

She turned back at the door to look at him. "What?"

"Maybe while we're both working on things, we could only be friends. Just temporarily." His blue eyes were sparkling. She did love those eyes.

She laughed. "I'd like that. Just temporarily, mind you. Bye, House." She turned and left, and he sat there on the couch wondering how many moods it was possible for the human soul to hit in the short span of a few days.

Someday. She was worth waiting for. Maybe he was, too.

(H/C)

The final knock came just as he was thinking of hauling his sore bones off to bed. He lurched up and went to the door, looking through the peephole, then straightening up in surprise. He swung the door open. "What are you doing here?"

Nolan met his eyes directly. "I owe you an apology," he said immediately.

"Ever hear of phones?"

"I owe you an apology in person. This is far more important than the drive. May I come in?"

House stepped back and let the psychiatrist enter. "Sit down," he said.

Nolan picked a chair, and House returned to the couch. "Dr. Cuddy called me to explain what happened," he said. "I completely misjudged you, and I pulled a support out from under you in the middle of a crisis by influencing her down that path. That was wrong of me. I should have been willing to listen. I've been thinking more about our last appointment, too, and I think I also was too judgmental, too quick off the mark there. I pushed you to leave; I don't think you really wanted to. I was not reading your signals at all. I'd had a tough day with other patients, but that is no excuse. I take full responsibility for driving you away that day, and I apologize."

House was staring. The list of adults who had, without any modification or excuse, ever apologized to him for anything was a quite short one. He was always perceived as the screw up. "I . . ." He stalled. In the face of such unmixed remorse and sincerity, he wasn't sure how to respond.

Nolan continued. "Dr. Cuddy also forwarded me the video link to last night. Detective Tritter was dead wrong, as were your friends, as was I, and I want you to know how proud I was seeing you spit out that Vicodin pill, even in the middle of a fight, even in extreme pain. Well done, House." Nolan stood up. "You don't have to say anything. I understand if you still don't want to work with me, but I wish you would continue with somebody. I can make a few suggestions, if you like."

"I'm going to start going to AA," House said abruptly. "I got invited by Chase, actually. He's going."

"Good. Excellent idea. I also dropped the ball in that session on exploring your drinking. I was too preoccupied with my agenda to listen. Maybe if I'd asked a few more questions, that night wouldn't have ended as it had." Nolan nodded toward House and then turned to the door. "I'll let myself out."

"Nolan?" House asked as the psychiatrist was almost through the door.

Nolan turned back instantly. "Yes?"

"Same time next week?"

Nolan smiled at him. "I'll write it down."

(H/C)

_Final montage._

Pure serene lyrical melody. House's baby grand sings, Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, the steady melody filling his apartment, the occasional dissonances quickly resolving.

Cuddy sits in the floor at her home, playing with Rachel. Both are laughing. Camera pans to her desk, where we see a picture of Lucas cut into pieces, the engagement ring sitting on the desk, and a search for jewelry buyers on her computer.

The Princeton jail. Lucas tries another number. Surely he has _one_ friend who can bail him out.

Chase is out taking an evening walk. He hesitates on the sidewalk outside a bar, then walks on by.

Wilson is in bed at his apartment. He starts talking to Amber, complaining about the day, but slowly trails to a stop. In bed beside him are the yellow pages, turned to psychiatrists. He looks from the listings to a picture of Amber back to the listings and looks contemplative.

Back in House's apartment, the Moonlight Sonata proceeds inevitably to a close, and the last two chords peacefully fade into silence. House studies his hands on the keys for a moment, then reaches up to get a drink from the coaster on top of the piano. The camera pans in, and we see that it is a can of ginger ale.

END OF SEASON 6

(I wish)


End file.
